I Like It Rough
by PopShop
Summary: -Oneshot- Tifa's chasing winds and weddings while Cloud struggles to hide injury behind arrogance, and Denzel, well, he's just looking for the next action hero.


Just call it creative constipation. Don't own FFVII, in ANY shape or form, and don't own Lady GaGa either.

* * *

_"Your love is nothing i can't fight"_

_"Won't sleep with a man who dims my shine"  
_

The weather today is slightly awkward with an increasing trend towards verbal attacks.

She says '_family_' like he understands, unaware of how much internal damage such a small word can cause. And he watches her, eyes framed in shades of bruises and ice, willing her to understand his discomfort, his confusion. But this inability to admit defeat pulls at the darkest corners of his mind. She'll stack glasses, buzzing from table to table, amber coloured liquids staining her skin. These are her physical distractions, like slipping into someone else's head.

He's seen her at her best, at her worst. Her hair matted, blood and filth, cheeks streaked in tears and agony, fingers shattered, the skin of her knuckles cracking and tearing, flecks of white appearing beneath the pulp. And too see her now, the face of an actress, of movies, with a loaded smile, hands that itch for the physical, hunched awkward over the countertops, the gentle clink of glass punctuating each laboured sigh.

Like a stranger in her own skin.

This is her worst, but it's all she has left to offer.

She is drained, empty, running on pure exhaustion, on anxiety, on nerves and hate. The fuel for a generation. Give her wild imagination as a coping mechanism. For a brief moment, she is a mother. For a flash, this is her home. And for the barest flicker of movement, she smiles.

He is different, he cannot fathom happy. He's broken inside, the mechanism to feel, to give or receive, is beyond repair. He gets by on how people tell him to feel, tell him to act. His fist knotted in strands of blonde, he watches her over the rim of his glass, her fingerprints pressed evidence into the embossed patterns. And through the swirls and curves of glass, he can maintain her smile longer, tilt and angle, until her face is distorted, the skin of her cheeks stretched to sickening lengths, a gaping pink wound where her smile should be. It may not be real, but it only takes a brief glance around him to see that not much of what he's calling '_life_' is real nowadays.

This union, this gathering. She calls it family.

He sees them for what they truly are, all that remains, damaged goods. Pasts littered with disasters, broken people. Perhaps she forgets how to feel, or maybe she's just straining to let go.

Sometimes he sees her, a distant look on her face, golden eyes hazy and distant, scenes of old movies flashing wildly across her vision. Black and white fragments of her own childhood. And he'll try to capture that smile, carve the image to the inside of his eyelids, because she'd never show it to him. Never show vulnerability. But her smile, like a butterfly, beautiful and colourful, and just fluttering from his grasp, elusive and lonely.

She has lost people; she has knelt over the dying and absorbed them for what they were in their last brief moments. Breathing in someone's final breath, like gold, like fairy dust.

Cocaine or Valium.

And she'd smile, insist she's okay, and he'd pull his sweater around his ears that night to muffle the sounds of her frantic crying, her choked sobbing and muttered apologies. The next morning they'd smile at each other, and play through the roles once more, struggling to maintain something relative to indifference, even ice cracks eventually.

Not even childishness can cure them, innocence and naivety, repetitive questions and the constant soundtrack of giggling. The novelty of having Marlene around was certainly wearing thin, although Tifa displayed more tolerance, natural instinct and sympathies, holding the young girl in her arms, petting her hazelnut hair those nights where Cloud would lose his patience, these brief flashes in time where he would lose his mind. Tearing wordlessly through the bar, through the corridors, through the shadows, boots echoing roars to blend over the sounds of Marlene's wounded sobbing, of Tifa's petty pleading. He'd never break things, would rarely touch the oddities Tifa insists on leaving littered about, he's well aware materialism is all she has left. But his mouth would move without his mind, his lips forming words he's only half confident are true, he'd curse the world, insist that humanity is a dying breed, that they're going to end up like everyone they've ever met some day.

Like everyone he's ever touched, ever felt vaguely attached too.

Cold and blue, 6 feet below disaster.

Tifa would press pale, trembling hands to the little girl's ears, some final stab at maintaining a child's hope, blocking out the world-weary truth spilled from lips too exhausted to claim otherwise. She'd fix him a glare, a combination of shock, amazement and a woman's fury, the skin around her eyes crinkled and dark, pinched and tense. She'd hiss his name through heavy breaths, nod vaguely down at the crown of Marlene's head, the girl's body jumping and sinking with the effort of muffling the sobs she knows sound like screams in his ears.

"The child, Cloud," she warns, all those traces of butterflies on her breath, hidden in her words are fizzling out, she's spitting lightening, each word rumbling through his head like thunder.

And he'd stop; briefly, eyes flicking from her hooked mouth, to Marlene's face, her eyes squeezed shut tight, as if the very effort could make him disappear. Her pale skin blotchy, tear-stained, beads of the salty water clinging to her eyelashes, weighing her head towards the ground.

He was like her once.

He was like her twice, crying over things beyond his control, over things he's lost, people he valued dying all around him. To imagine himself as that kid once more sends shockwaves up his spine, flashes of red before his eyes, his finger pointed jagged through air thick with tension.

"She's not _our_ child, Tifa," he hisses, almost admiring how she quickly packs the words behind her teeth, behind that faux smile he'll come to see in spotlights. Her breathing sounds strangled, her lips pursed, pulling the skin of her cheeks tight. She leans over, not once peeling her eyes from the bent and broken form of him, standing hunched like some raging Neanderthal, all the fury in his eyes, all the shadows of the people he couldn't save. She keeps her own eyes steel, unwilling to show him pity, compassion, he already sees enough of that in his reflections, how he dwells in the dark past they've shared transforming him into this wilting human being, this caged animal.

She whispers soft words to the girl, curling long strands of hazel around her finger as her lips move soundlessly next to her ear. Marlene's face is still a stone-carved picture of defeat, of guilt, slow paces carrying her pitiful shape across the floorboards, her head hung, eyes tilted purposely, studying, reading the various notches in the wood for solutions, for answers.

_Does Cloud remember how to smile?_

She'll retreat back to her comfort zone, back to Denzel, her brother in this less than satisfactory family unit Tifa frequently fantasizes about. Denzel however, was a cut and carved copy of one Cloud Strife. He knew, frequently _reminded_ himself, that their current state was one of convenience. He knew Cloud would leave, knew Tifa would shed her tears in solitude. And all because the ties that bind them are paper chains.

Aggression tears them, and tears erode them, sadness and spite, two emotions frequently worn nowadays.

Denzel was not exactly the blank canvas his age would imply. He's been shaded, hued and toned by the miseries that brought his path to Cloud's. He is a battle field painted in watercolours, soft and timid at first glance, but he is as much depression, disaster, death as the rest. He's all weepy smiles and angry eyes. He is the eyes that don't see, the ears that don't hear, Marlene's frequent sob stories fading to white noise before he can distinguish the words.

She'd told him once, wondered aloud why Cloud and Tifa were so unhappy together, went as far as to use the word '_hate_' in all her childish understanding of its implications. And he'd watch through the banisters, wait for this inevitable trail of arguments, obvious and blunt, considering Marlene had recognised them for what they were. Two people at war with the world, using each other as verbal dumping grounds. Tifa's eyes shaded over in shades of violence, a dishcloth clutched agonizingly tight in one hand, the veins pumping purple against her pale skin. She waves the rag like surrender, each swish, each flick punctuating another reason she can't stand him, she's genuinely lost, confused, hopeless. His darkness clouding her vision.

"I get it, Cloud, but don't you think you should pull your head from the past and move on with your life?"

It's a question, no doubt in his mind that this is a personal invasion. She's so blinded by rage, her eyes skim over the huge holes forming in her ill-prepared defence. And Cloud wonders, how could she possibly not know what she has to say, had she not learned her script? Had she not poured over this argument in her head each night, until the sunlight bleeds through the shadows the next morning?

Just like he had.

"Move on with yours!" he yells, with such pressure on his vocal chords, his voice shatters, sounds like a million different sounds snarling and snapping at her. Angry spirits from a past he hasn't quite conquered, screaming their protest from deep in his lungs. Rarely would Cloud raise his voice above the dull mutter, the monotone drawl.

"Stop chasing this idea. We're not a family. We don't want to be," he finishes, the words sinking cement weights down to his ankles, his gaze following them on their descent. Tifa does not ask to which '_we_' he refers, she's already caught brief flashes of curious eyes, leering down from beyond the shadows, catching the colours in the dim light of the room.

Denzel's curiosity.

She wonders briefly if maybe Cloud was already aware of his presence. Although she finds it a little farfetched to believe otherwise, after all, that man's been so pumped full of military class drugs, he's left shattered fragments of memory dotted along the roads, like breadcrumbs, hoping to find his way back to something important. Back to where he was relevant, not just some faceless actor playing the role of the chronically confrontational '_father_'.

It's these dark nights, when the light stretches sharp shadows across the hollows of his face, she sees the evidence of his history, the scars he suffered to save the following generation. Eyes glowing like electricity, sparks hopping and fizzling. He doesn't break eye contact. And she speaks with a chemical cocktail of surprise, amusement, maybe even a flash of pride, brief but obvious, "Cloud? Have you been drinking?"

There's the sudden scuffling of bare feet on the floorboards, of nails scraping along the banister. The gentle click as Denzel returns to hide within the safety of his sanctuary, hesitantly leaning over a slumbering Marlene, anxious as to whether or not she can hear the arsenal of words being thrown around like confetti just downstairs. Eyes still dampened from her childish broken dream, he wraps the blankets tight around her, effectively muffling the voices that creep beneath their door.

She is cocooned, and he is the poster-boy for anxiety.

And downstairs Cloud will silence his mind, fight away the deeper thoughts as best he can, shield himself from the concerns he holds regarding the urgent pitter-patter of an impressionable young boys feet across the upstairs landing.

He knows why Denzel runs away.

The boy has a strong-will, thick skin developed from lingering by the bar to much while Tifa's eyes stray, but once he's reminded of how human his hero can be, well, in a world reduced to support beams and rubble, what else has he left but idol worship. He can't face the ideas, can't admit someone like Cloud feels weakness; Cloud has bled, cried, murdered. It may be common knowledge, but Denzel will lock those secrets deep within his mind, insistent on maintaining that halo above Cloud's head. Watching their argument with the smooth indifference he's practised, their revelations, their thoughts and ideas fly right by his ears. But once Tifa murmurs words like 'alcohol', or consistent references to drug addictions Denzel has yet to hear from Cloud himself, he feels his respect dwindle. He runs to his room, intent on maintaining Cloud as some sort of golden boy, unwilling to hear his filthy back story from a woman like Tifa, hell-bent on her verbal revenge.

It's always a disappointment meeting your heroes in real life, but Denzel sits across from his at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, even for those lonely, angry late night drinks Cloud insists upon. Imagine the disappointment that breeds from so much contact.

He'll place him on a pedestal until further notice.

Lying back to back with Marlene, his eyes press holes through the wooden door listening for the sound of surrender from downstairs. The voices dull to murmurs, Tifa's panicky, fast-paced rebuke, Cloud's lazily muttered responses, his words losing shape and grace, the alcohol seemingly disabling his ability to curve his lips around vowel sounds. And then there's silence, Denzel's head tunnelling in the effort to focus, Marlene's heavy breathing beside him doing nothing to ease his nerves.

"Go drink in your room, Cloud."

Before she even structures the words, his fist has formed around the bottle, his back already turned. His day-to-day life made him a hero, transformed him to a god, his wings carved into his back by the eyes of the people who followed him, but he'll curl his mouth around the lip of a bottle, drown his words in however much alcohol it may take. It's an obsession that reduces him to a human once more. She knows from experience how his mind kicks into overdrive while he's hazy and fuzzy, how he's unable to hold up the walls that keep so many of the nightmares at bay.

Because after all, with that firewater spinning circles down his throat, he's only human.

Every night he falls from grace, and she knows she settles within the same frame of mind as Denzel, she can't stand to see this human breakdown, she can't bare the thought of him actually feeling anything considering what those drug-enhanced eyes have seen. He is a man composed entirely of regrets and rebellion, and she'll ask him to leave so she won't have to bare witness to his self-destructive ways. He rarely argues, losing all interest in protesting. He'll leave, but she wouldn't consider his lack of argument as obedience, it's just silence.

There is no winner to this confrontation, because he still manages to hold his dignity in an iron grip.

She listens to the heavy thud of his footfalls, his boots like cement sandals, followed by the inevitable pause on the landing, the creak of the rotting floorboard by the children's room. She can almost visualise his thought process, his inner turmoil, a raging debate, attempting to convince himself to just say goodnight. It's just one word, something they'll grow to value. But he'll turn on his heel as per usual, the next sound the click of the lock on his own door.

Tomorrow morning his sheets will still be warm, his heavy breaths still hanging in the air, but his room abandoned. She'll pull the door closed, hiding his demons within. He'll be tinkering and toying in the lane, the constant mechanical clank of heavy metals being an accurate indication of where his attentions lie. Fenrir. More of a family than she could ever hope to recreate.

He finds it increasingly difficult to communicate with either of the children, finding the laboured backbone of conversation occasionally shared with Denzel to be satisfactory enough, limiting himself to greetings and goodbyes, rarely pausing to respond to the boy's typically childish questions. And she'll stand behind the bar until the night screeches over the sky once more, caught up in a whirlwind of voices, of life stories she's never played a role in. Heavy hazel eyes haze in between worlds, staring into white noise, for once thankful of Marlene's fluttering presence by her side, the young girl keeping her somewhat grounded, repeating requests and demands, stranger's words in a mouth to young to carry them. Occasionally feeling the shrunken, splayed hand of the girl pressed against her hip, a questioning expression fixed in glazed over eyes. She'll smile; place a callous hand on the girl's head, tangling fingers in the chocolate-coloured strands like some sort of salvation, some source of relief, the hard expressions of her face dissolving with the action.

She cannot begin to consider the ideas and concerns that flit through the Marlene's mind, like butterflies with razor wings, cutting her from the inside out. Denzel has not left a word unsaid, planting doubts and fears in her head with a sadistic sort of pleasure, unaware that each word he breathes is not a word of a lie. Tifa won't deny the obvious tensions blossoming between herself and Cloud, awkward and uneasy, spreading and infecting like blood from a bullet wound, but she will smile, make her best effort at changing the subject for fear of subjecting the children to whatever deep-rooted problems lie between herself and her childhood friend.

"Tifa?" Marlene hesitates, like she's intruding, and maybe she is, Tifa's thoughts taking a private twist as soon as their gazes locked.

"I'm fine," she says slowly, shaping the words awkwardly, deliberately emphasising them, strengthening what little truth lies behind them in Marlene's mind. The little girl smiles, satisfied, bumbling back through the crowd, humble and happy, eager to offer any help she can, collecting empty glasses between pudgy fingers and offering the brightest smiles to people too accustomed to war to realise how to appreciate such a sunshine expression.

And Tifa's eyes are drawn to the silky pink ribbon hanging limp from the young girl's hair. The sun has faded its bright colours, but the memories it holds are still burning vivid on sore minds unwilling to forget. She will let go to a certain extent, like releasing a balloon, feeling it slip from her fingers, but reaching up to grasp it before it eludes her completely. And she will continue to tease her sub-conscious in such a way, show it relief, ease it's regret, before handing it all back. While Cloud continues to cling so desperately to these memories, she too will be bound to them, for duty, and respect.

Aerith had been another victim of the battles that raged. Her death had been the metaphorical kick in the teeth, a stripping of enthusiasm, and hope, things which Cloud has yet to reclaim. His best attributes still sitting abandoned by a roadside, eagerly awaiting rescue. And her mind spins in self-destructive circles once again, the appropriate expressions playing havoc across her features, but the voice that pulls her from her misery is not Marlene's.

"You okay?"

Yuffie has never been anything less than dazzling, bright smiles and wide eyes, still a child despite the scenes of devastation her mind's eye has captured. She too has come from the shattered - developed and strengthened through her own broken history. She is relatable; she is their balance, preferring to offer brave smiles, dampening impending sombre moods, curling the corners of reluctant lips with her ridiculous notions.

With such a shining expression, a continuous fountain of mismatched words tumbling from her mouth, it's easy to overlook the personal issues which have shaped her.

A young girl festering with a deep-rooted rebellion and contempt for the traditional, resulting in the crumbling relationship between herself and her father. She manages to maintain this play act of bubble pop princess, demanding and pouty, frequently displaying an almost chronic disrespect for her elders, but only because she still grasps at stereotypes, plays into the role of how she figures average teenage girls operate. Only occasionally does she allow the wear and tear to show, moments she assumes privacy, wide smiles once gracing chapped lips slide to the floorboards. But for now, hazel eyes are hooded by shades of sunshine and bright colours, she'll keep her shadows secret for the time being.

Tifa is slow to respond, her mind clouded by inner turmoil waging war in her ear drums, but Yuffie has grown increasingly accustomed to the sight of the fading fighter drifting through memories and private thoughts, slowly losing grasp on the reality surrounding her. The little ninja girl leans awkwardly across the bar, elbows dipped in pools of shimmering amber liquids, but a grin on her face nonetheless.

She longs to hear the tales that breed within these four walls, struggles to understand the dynamics of the dysfunction Tifa and Cloud often delve into. She's read through the looks, the heated stares, the deadpan glares, their entire relationship built on the unstable foundations of body language. She has studied how they shimmer from one mood to the next; felt the awkward heat curl in the pit of her stomach as the inevitable arguments spread electricity through the air. She holds the utmost respect and admiration for the restraint they practise before the public eye, occasionally overlooking how those lingering touches sometimes leave nail trails carved into skin, or how dirty glares inspire such sad smiles.

"Tifa, Are you alright?"

The response is a heavy sigh, the kind that makes ribs crack and groan in relief, although the gesture of womanly frustrations is almost entirely lost, overshadowed by the sound of mechanical clatter from the side lane, as though Cloud had intentionally concealed her moment of weakness. But all the concerns of the world are written in red lines through the pupils of her eyes, all her worry worn in last years shades of '_bruise_' around her eyes. But there's an uncharacteristic twist at the corner of her mouth, a slight smile, and angle that would suggest that right now, she is _exactly_ where she wants to be.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired," she murmurs softly, Yuffie struggling to pick the words from the busy din of the bar's regulars.

There's a crash, the angry, broad shaped clatter of mechanical parts tumbling to the concrete, the light tinkling of broken glass, as if Cloud was once more disguising her weaknesses, attempting to create in her the same strong-willed woman he discovered in Aerith. And maybe she is right, a continuous subconscious circle running riot in his mind; he's just clinging to the past, because he'd never admit that the prospect of the future terrifies him. How Aerith's bright smile, green eyes that wandered and wavered, saw the sunlight beyond the disaster, had supported him, lied to him and convinced him that just maybe, as a united force, the road unfurling before them would not pose a trial. He'll gather the stories behind his teeth and swallow them back like a bitter pill, sticking solid in his throat, the tales of how he'd press his cheek to the window panes and beg forgiveness in worried whispers. Apologise for wasting all her childish hope, her unwavering faith in him. How in her absence, he can no longer continue, this being the reason his mind manages to project soothing green over wild amber, why sometimes he slips up, his mind still caught in previous times, and calls Tifa by the wrong name. She'll only hesitate momentarily, the joints of her body freezing beneath tanned skin, before continuing about her business, gathering the glasses, donating her greetings and false smiles to patrons willing to accept them, in the back of her mind, hating him only a little more than yesterday.

"Cloud causing you grief again?" asks the self-proclaimed ninja girl, interrupting Tifa's downward spiralling trail of thought, her desperation playing cartwheels about her face. Yuffie's question holds no malice, no ill-intentions, she's once again playing into her role, presenting Tifa with a teenage girl's prying sense of curiosity, a self-congratulatory smile playing about her lips, confident she's achieved something from Tifa's distress.

The bar-tender forces another smile, the corners of her mouth curling in the most unattractive way, a tinge of pain and a brief flash of an aged face she wears as a badge of all she has suffered. Her shoulders sag, a flash of exhaustion shot through her eyes.

It's not Cloud.

It's not always Cloud, how many times she'll manage to convince herself she is her own person; she is her own words and stories, not just another supporting character in the fascinating drama that is his life. He is her chronic migraine, an addition to each and every little problem that plagues her daily routines. And right now, she'll prioritise.

"I'm still worried about Denzel." And Yuffie nods with a sad understanding, her eyes subconsciously drifting to the upstairs landing, the stair banisters Denzel often shelters behind, tiny knuckles clenched tightly around the smooth wood, those bars the perfect metaphor for his illness, his Geostigma, confining him within the walls of seventh heaven.

Cloud had carried the orphan boy to them whilst returning from another of his 'urgent' deliveries, an apology wrapped in a big red bow to a crumbling church building reeking of flowers and past regrets.

Without a word Cloud had offered her the boy, cradled unconscious in arms not built for comfort, the sight of a child bundled within setting off spiralling emotions in the pit of her stomach. He offered her no back-story, no fascinating history, no particular reason for her to spoil and pamper this strange china boy. But Denzel's illness was charcoal stains and dripping black liquids written across his forehead, geostigma.

It was blatant, a smoky black stain on white-washed skin, impossible for Cloud to ignore, not viable that mako amplified eyes would overlook such an obvious problem.

Cloud took Denzel's sickness as a personal insult, as some deluded challenge. For days after, his words were brusque at best, ice eyes skimming over the crown of Denzel's head whenever the little boy would gamble at conversation. It had just been unlucky coincidence that Denzel was on the lookout for someone to hero worship the night Rude and Reno stumbled through the doors of seventh heaven.

The scene outside the windows had been world painted in winds and waters, a miserable night to perfectly compliment the miserable state of affairs the streets of Edge had been reduced too. The hands of the clock pointed angrily upwards, their invisible fingers tapping impatiently to an unheard beat, threateningly indicating the figure twelve, reminding her that Cloud had yet to return for the night. Marlene had been sleeping soundly for hours, the sounds of raucous laughter lost on her innocent ears. Denzel still wandered around the bar, carefully navigating around flailing arms and legs protruding from booths, his eyes downcast, his mind miles away.

And Tifa kept her concerns to herself, her eyes stabbing frantically towards the clock face periodically, her anxiety in Cloud's absence serving only as a happy distraction from Denzel's pale face, his skin shimmering like sugar, burning hot to the touch. He had been unwell earlier in the evening, his words dry of his usual enthusiasm, his voice hoarse, the black of his eyes swallowing watery blue whole.

It had been Marlene that alerted her to Denzel's deteriorating condition, her mind so fully focused on her work, Marlene's soft-spoken words barely penetrating her buzzing mind. The little girl had been on the verge of crying, a watery well of tears gathering along her lashes as she sullenly grasped her make-shift mother's hand within her own, wordlessly leading the woman away from the carnage that would no doubt ensue with her absence.

The sight of Denzel spread like a crash victim, severe and irreparable, eyes turned towards the ceiling, tracing patterns in the gathering dust, a sight forever burned behind her eyelids. White bed sheets spread like angel's wings, stained in tears and sweat; stretches of inky black sketched into the fabric, his hands clutching, white-knuckled and desperate, the material bundled between his trembling fingers. His words muttered harshly beneath heavy breaths, not a word of praise, no prayers tumbling from rapid racing lips.

Denzel could never bring himself to resent his illness, almost displayed a solemn respect for his body's self-destruction. Instead, he hung his grudges like badges, like black eyes across the faces of all the people who could not help him.

And while she pressed his tiny china fists between her throbbing palms, scrutinized each word falling from lips slick with spit, she could not bring herself to overlook each angry curse he placed above Cloud's head. A child's inner frustrations spelled out in a young boy's last breaths, a tale of his hero's absence in those critical moments, make or break minutes. Episodes that make her realise that without Cloud, the bond she shares with Denzel is delicate at best, flimsy, brittle. She needs Cloud for this laughable mismatched family to function. But these fits, theses random outbursts of suffering, are only momentary, and she'll press her palm to the sticky skin of his cheek, murmuring senseless nonsense of days when they were heroes, of cures and freedom.

That night he was a walking advertisement for insomnia, bleary eyed and bumbling, lips barely forming the words he seemed to choke on. She let him wander the bar, his ceaseless tossing and turning inspiring Marlene's motherly urges, the young girl insisting on staying up to supervise his Geostigma deterioration. Unhappy coincidences that would bring the Turks to her doorstep that night.

It's the combination cacophony of the door slamming heavy on it's hinge, and the low humming tone of Reno's voice that inspires the awkward hesitation, the faltering silence that envelopes the bar, the atmosphere dampened by a single man's repulsive personality.

Tifa is quick to cradle her head, alcohol stained fingertips massaging deep and repetitive patterns along the tight skin of her temples. Rude accompanies his sincerely sketchy partner to the bar, guiding the chronically ill-mannered menace towards a stall with a heavy hand, knuckles the colour of twilight, the nights previous exploits written in crimson coloured inks along the collar of his uniform. Reno's eyes are a pretty collage of violet hues and cerulean streaks, sightless and strained, the thin layer of skin painted across his skeleton pulled tight, sunken cheeks the colour of bright veins and yellow bruising, his pursed lips and the roll of his jaw advertising his conditions. His fingertips gently tap a slow rhythm along polished tabletops, ricocheting and amplified, escalating behind her eyes, each soothing beat suddenly shouting warnings, children crying and gunfire.

Rude stands before her - the negative, the conflict, the reverse, everything Reno is not. He is a study in silence, his mouth a grim, pressed line, tight and slow from lack of use. And Denzel takes in their mistakes, their miseries and their mysteries written in cheap vodka, each word stolen from another's mouth.

The boy's senses of right and wrong are an impressionist painting, blurred and vague, and from the world beyond his window, his eyes will try capture the images that will strengthen his character. Those careless brushstrokes, indistinct and confused, will reach over his eyes, blind him from elements of reality Tifa deems too severe for his age. Her voice is a monotonous whisper, hushed and repetitive, not enough to drown out the horror stories her patrons share like bad bets and rough handshakes, but enough to distract him.

She is constant and expected in her misinterpretations of his intellect, she underestimates and untangles the complicated webs AVALANCHE have woven, arranges her words in the black and white, refuses to let him see her world for it's dismal shades of grey and hazy histories.

She says '_good_' and '_evil_', holding up each hand as an indication, her swollen lips can't seem to fathom such simplicity, stumbling over her childish explanations, and her eyes are smiling as she spills lie after lie, but they both see right through her. She says '_light_' and '_dark_', she says '_good guys_' and '_bad guys_', a polished finger stabbing at Reno, hunched miserable in the booth, struggling to gather his thoughts in his mind, his whole world in his hands as the prayers spill silent from parched lips.

Her words soon drain of meaning, the soft heat of her breath on his ear slowly fading as she realises her words are merely a waste of time. This boy is Cloud, bad habits and guilty eyes, a fixation for independence and a fanatical need to belong. He's already walking, bare feet pressing resolutely against cold tile, the spiral prints, the heat of his skin leaving a dotted trail towards the agonized redhead.

Denzel recalls words of wisdom spoken years ago, his mother's voice issuing repetitive advice within his skull. How he should always judge people by how they use their words, not by how words are used against them, and Tifa has been relentless in her negative critique with regards to anyone branded by the Shinra Corporation, those unfortunate enough to be wearing their glinting, silver employee badges and the Shinra logo with something akin to pride.

How easily the red-heads wilting expression, a rainbow of fatigue and resolve, distracts wandering eyes from plastic coated identification, the red diamond of Shinra. He can almost hear Tifa's disappointment in the steady breaths she forces between the teeth of a pretend smile, and while behind closed doors her words are cutting knives, a constant trail of verbal abuse towards Rufus Shinra, here, within the company of the Turks, she holds her tongue for fear of causing insult.

How ironic.

Reno is almost deaf to the young boys' sticky footsteps, oblivious to the hammering sound of Denzel swallowing around his heart now lodged in his throat. He's never paid the boy much attention, hates to dwell on the ideas of what these kids may one day become. But Denzel is wide eyes and flushed cheeks, innocence and a child's curiosity, and beneath that, behind the default persona he slides so effortlessly below, he is tainted shades of black from all his eyes have captured. But Reno will play along, tap the seat beside him and usher the child into his company with a languid nod, a vague sweep of a hand still stiff from injury.

Tifa watches the scene with growing distaste, a bitter tightness in her throat, the thought of Denzel exposed to Reno's unfiltered lifestyle setting every nerve ending into agony below her skin.

Rude is her constant, a somewhat soothing presence hovering in her peripheral. His lips betray no expressions, no inner thoughts, no crippling anguish playing out dramatically across the plains of his face. His hand rests idol on the countertop, each finger pressing mutilated prints into its surface. His tension has become an accurate indicator of just how loose Reno's tongue has become. The tighter his knuckles, knots of veins and tendons spelling words beneath the surface of his skin, the progressively more damaging each word uttered is, the red-head dropping them like hearts or bombs, the same alarming lack of consideration for each.

Rude, to her, does not feel like a personal insult, appearing just as damaged and exhausted, in the way his posture fails or how his teeth grind and screech behind the cover of his lips. Each morning he slips beneath the cover of formalities and faux graciousness, and this is how she'll always see him. He insists on calling her '_ma'am_', adds years to her age by mumbling such a small word, nodding his head in the barest hint of greeting.

She recognises his authenticity in the ways he does not force his presence upon her world weary shoulders, he is civil, does not push for familiarity. The smallest traces of relationships are enough to satisfy his Shinra mindset. Reno is his polar opposite, collecting friends, phone numbers and familiar faces like toys or play things; material objects he's not capable of concerning himself with. He's loud and obnoxious, mouthy to the point of near constant insult, flashy words and bright smiles, his petty camouflage, because the reality of it is, he needs all these people, his metaphorical support pillars, whether they love him or loathe him, he feeds off it, in a constant state of need, feeding off recognition, because unlike Rude, he craves the reassurance that his position as a Shinra henchman has provided results.

He needs to know how his Turk title has his name in everyone's mouths.

He bursts through the doors of Seventh Heaven, frequently under the influence of far more dangerous things than Tifa's poisons. He says, '_Hey Beautiful_' feigns their friendship, the nickname sending shivers down her spine and setting a fabulous frown along her brow, because isn't that what people do? Isn't that what nicknames are?

Misnames. Personal jokes.

He calls her beautiful because it's exactly what he sees her as not. Her hate is more than she can verbalise, so she watches in excruciating, reluctant silence, straining her ears to hear the Shinra fairytale bullshit Reno is spitting right in her little boy's ear.

"Tonight he's harmless," comes Rude's gruff voice of reason, and she almost asks whether he's referring to Reno or Denzel. From this distance, behind the battlements of her bar, she cannot see the heavy haze across Reno's eyes.

"He'll only talk. Medication - for his hands, it makes him stupid".

Rude sees that rampant parental streak scratched with sharp, angry nails across Tifa's face. Safely behind the lens of his glasses, he'll follow her line of vision; take in the scene without a view tainted by maternal instinct. Reno's exasperating penchant for gossip has proved useful on providing information with regards to what happens in private, closed behind the walls of the bar. Rude is well aware of the rehabilitation Tifa has forced herself through, heard from Reno, who heard from a friend of a friend of a friend, that she and Cloud have been suffering what would appear to be '_family_' issues. He's well aware what they, both Cloud and Tifa, expose to the public is a happy charade.

Damaged people are never quite the same afterwards, difficult to repair, but he acknowledges her efforts, sees her devotion in playing parent to Marlene and Denzel, compassionately watches her repeatedly work herself into frustration as each futile attempt at a convincing relationship between herself and Strife collapses to mush in her hands. He'd never bother verbalising something as personal as his observations, never pressure her into discussing her private life, but for all intensive purposes, through the eyes of the public, they _are_ the family they try so hard to imitate.

"Denzel," she calls, her teeth a pressed perfect, pearly line. She doesn't elaborate, narrows her eyes slightly when the boy glances up, momentarily distracting him from the toothy imprints lining the protruding bone of Reno's wrist.

She watches Rude watch Reno, a photo of a photo of a photo.

Without articulating her wishes, Denzel is deaf to her demands. He blinks, wide-eyed and stupid, ears filling with Reno's fantastical stories of kidnap and murder, struggles to hold his composure as the words gradually blur and blend, undefined, Reno seemingly losing either his ability, or his interest in shaping his speech. One arm draped heavily across Denzel's hunched shoulders, fingers tapping an unheard masterpiece in the air.

"You'know, I've worked with kids your age," and the implications are not lost on Denzel. But he stays, cradled in the arms of chaos, confident in Rude's abilities to read the tension in the situation, and the words as they tumble from Reno's lips.

"Denzel," she says again, harder, an edge of steel to her tone, her eyes conveying a message her mouth can't seem to spit out. Her knuckles pop and snap beneath her splintering skin. Conversation seems to wither, words being used as nothing more than ineffective distractions as curious eyes study her from above the rims of half-empty glasses. Is this another crack in the mask, another rip through her masterpiece? Her lack of control over Cloud mirroring the same absence of power over Denzel. Reno presses closer to the boy, green-blue eyes settling lazily on her, watching her past the obvious flutter of panic across Denzel's expression. His lips move slowly, intentionally emphasising each word, framing each syllable with canine teeth. Denzel absorbs them like gospel, like praise, like everything Cloud never seems offer.

"I think your old lady is getting pissy over there," he broadcasts, his voice a siren tempting that impressionable little boy far beyond his depth.

The words echo in the silence of the bar, occasional whispers harassing her mind with accusations of bad parenting, of questionable judgement. As if Reno's uniform was his plague and she simply overlooked it. She bites back the violence, the vengeance in her fists. Reno with his pretty words and dirty glares, fables of Shinra and SOLDIER carried like an arsenal behind his teeth, come to win over her little boy, Denzel with his big hopes, ready to fight for something worth while.

Calling his name again, her voice trembles, agitation rattling her vocal chords, her tone frantic and desperate, not an image she'd like to convey. Her patrons watch this drama unfold, eyes noting each detail, each point of weakness, studying Denzel with an almost familiar disappointment, silently scolding him for reducing his faux mother to a fuming wreck in public, her nails leaving half-moon prints in the palm of each hand.

But Denzel is a hybrid, the kind of boy who seeks out action heroes, people to imitate. People to be. Because imitation isn't flattery, it's just replacement, and this is Denzel laying the foundations for his future. His little hands have captured Cloud's strengths, his posture; he's studied Reno's awkward mannerisms, admired Rude's professionalism from afar. Isn't it time he puts is chaotic concoction to good use? His response to Tifa's constant call is not his own words; they're painted all shades of Reno.

"Denz-"

"We're just talking! He's not as bad as you say you'know".

And suddenly Reno's head is in his hands, his knuckles all shades of dusk, his shoulders shaking and heaving, choking laughs breaking from his mouth, shattering and tinkling like glass along the tabletop. Tifa is a portrait of rejection, her shoulders sagging, hands hanging limp by her sides, glossy beads of tears gathering along her lashes, lips pursed tight.

Reno is a poison, destroying the body from within, and there's a glare in Denzel's eyes she's never seen before, she can read the words still poised on his lips, words he daren't place his voice behind.

'_You're not my mother_'.

"Don't yell at Tifa, Denzel".

And that voice is her salvation. Cloud stands brittle, his shadow swallowing the doorframe. All eyes on the hero as he once again steps into the familiar glow of spotlights and the constant buzzwords of praise.

"You do it, too," Denzel shoots back, and this boy's already got hell in his eyes, Reno, for once, looking intrigued. A look of brief panic, a flash of concern dashes across his sickly pallor with all the urgency of sirens, any emotion quickly reined, hidden beneath a careful expression of indifference.

And no doubt Cloud stares irately into the face of his past-self, Denzel with his pale skin and bright eyes. His unrestrained enthusiasm and his juvenile naivety. Mako-infused eyes glare urgent warnings, against Reno, against Shinra, and Denzel all but presses tiny hands over his ears, unwilling to listen to Cloud's words of fatherly interference.

Tifa feels injured, a kicked puppy, a broken china doll, eyes carving love notes in the polished linoleum.

The unstoppable force and the immovable object.

Denzel and Cloud.

Denzel is a collection, a collage, research papers. A collection of facts and opinions, each trait another earth-shattering discovery. He is the combined efforts of everyone he has ever known, and right now, his eyes blaze a fury she'll deny all knowledge of, something she'll overlook for her own peace of mind.

"Reno, we're leaving," utters Rude, a voice-box full of gravel, each word carrying the impact of an earthquake, easily shattering, collapsing the smug confidence Reno prefers to hide behind. His smile, rows of bleached white and an awkward curl of lip, his favourite urban camouflage.

Reno's fingers flex and twist, flecks of scarlet spreading, swallowing the off-white shades of the bandaging, new wounds and new skin tearing under the stress of his tendencies. There's no curve to his arm, Reno has never been more than harsh lines, critical angles, the offending limb balancing awkwardly across Denzel's feverish shoulders, the misted heat bleeding from the boy's neck inspiring spikes of pain along the surface of his skin. Despite his attitude, his vast collection of scars, criss-crossed and clear, spelling stories he cannot verbalise, the blood caked thick beneath stubby fingernails, his touch along the damaged line of Denzel's silhouette is feather light, ice cold. Nothing warm, no comfort held therein.

This is purely territorial.

Possession and influence.

This kid's got the Shinra named carved violently along the stretch of his youth. Surely his future holds much of the same.

"Where's the fire, Rude?" he finally glances up, eyes all shades of envy and ocean, a small smile distorting the smooth skin of his cheeks.

Rude's glare falters, deep beneath the shadows of dark glass and dim light his eyes stray to the agonized silhouette haunting the doorway. Reno imagines the gesture, the sickening scratch as Rude's eyes roll heavy in his head to acknowledge, access the threat. Sees how weather-beaten hands stretch and search, to find comfort in metal, in rubber grips, in leather gloves. And he's played this game before, easing himself beneath a smug smirk, lightening flashing in his eyes, stretching awkward limbs for emphasis, the pale streak of his arm still pressing promise across Denzel's shoulders.

His smirk is a work in progress, a mediocre method of distraction, some concluding attempt at blamelessness - bright, unbreakable eyes. It's common knowledge that Reno is only innocent beneath ultraviolet light.

"Under you, if that what it takes you to move." Rude's pushing the words through the gaps in a tight smile, the word '_surrender_' barely contained within his cheeks. He's already on his feet, his suit crisp lines and charisma. A brief nod at Tifa, the tears still clinging along her lashes like pearls, like threats. But Reno is unresponsive, stretching back into his childhood, his face a destructive cocktail of mischief, arrogance and ignorance, the colours of confrontation, each looking a little outgrown across world-weary features. The muscles in Rude's jaw physically clench, pulling his face tight, the grinding and screeching of enamel almost enough to sooth a racing heart, an explosive temper.

"I think you should leave, Reno." Tifa's voice is delicate and light, but her face a study in tight shapes and sharp corners, a reflection of the thunderstorm raging across Cloud's face.

Proof that even she is corruptible.

Proof of his influence, his grasp over her.

'_I am not his supporting character_'.

Reno reluctantly heaves himself to his feet, an almost audible rattle of bones accompanying the action. Bandaged hands sliding awkwardly towards weapons and defence. Hazy eyes, wide and dry, flick from face to face, absorbing expressions, emotions, words bleeding under his breath, wandering if this war of morals and minds is more territorial than anything else.

Daily life is their battlefield, Denzel's future providing a satisfactory reward for the victor.

"I think we should, too," grumbles Rude, making no move to physically confront his tense partner. He reads the anxiety along the stiff lines of Reno's back, sees the aggravation carved into the washed out skin pulled tight across his colleague's face. Reno has always been a time-bomb, each word he says like another move towards disaster. Uncomfortable, explosive, a sample of the words scratched in red biro along his permanent records. Reno still mourns the childhood stolen from him, and naturally, still nurturing the warped mind of a forgotten child, he begrudges Denzel his. All this push and pull, influence and destruction, it's all another way for Reno to win.

An overdramatic setting for a belated tantrum.

Reno slides effortlessly between tables and stools, snake eyes drawn to Cloud's turbulent expression. He adores this, the silent spotlight, every patron present waiting to gloss and frame the next words from his mouth.

Everyone wants to capture the face of Denzel's tormenter, the parasite that's been victimising Cloud Strife's little boy. Because Denzel doesn't know it yet, but he has already inherited everything Cloud has left. No longer such a blank canvas, an empty page, he's been scribbled out, written over in words of war and loss, coloured in streaks of electric blue.

He is their new hero.

Tifa watches the Turks leave, Denzel cradled against her chest, his breathing soft and low, his pores bleeding fire. Strands of hair clump and stick to pale cheeks, the angry scratch of black across his forehead. And this is all irrational, this is all an act, this is her son, the perfect little actor, pulling on the hem of her shirt, insisting staying up. The bar's patrons watch their little drama; absorb them for their highs and their lows. Believe everything they say.

Stories of Cloud and Tifa, and their two beautiful kids.

"Denzel, you should get back to bed," and Cloud does well not to snap and snarl, all his agitation keeping his jaws glued shut, jamming words back down his throat. His fists curled into tight knots, white-knuckled and disturbed, fighting the idea of scratching Reno out from beneath his skin.

Reno had smiled, a broad, bloody gash across his ashen face, teeth glittering like axe blades. Smug, in control. Like suddenly the red-head held all the secrets, all the stories, the knowledge to fill in the blurry chapters of Cloud's own history, but was in no mood for sharing. And now, Reno had infected Denzel, spitting poison in his ear, reducing Cloud to little more than ash.

Tifa pulls Denzel to his feet, cold hands spread across his blazing skin, guiding him away from prying eyes, an apologetic smile on her lips. Costumers mutter and whisper, barely hiding opinions behind the hands they hold to their mouths, advice and concerns. They talk up the image of a family they does not exist.

One hand pressing lightly against the blistering skin of Denzel's shoulder, she guides him towards Cloud, the lingering shadow propped against the doorway. She feels the boy's uneasiness, the sharp intake of breath, how blue eyes seek out the floorboards for written excuses, pretty words to talk away his behaviour. Her grip relaxes, fingers flexing as he slides from beneath her fingertips, a desperate, broken run towards the stairway. Even as he frantically climbs the steps, stumbling, his knees a tattered shade of red, small splinters lining his palms in the effort to right himself, wide blue eyes never once leave Cloud.

Magnetised towards disaster.

Towards silence.

"How does it feel to be a dad?" Tifa presses close to him, words low under her breath, arms crossed, hands pressed close, to avoid from reaching out and touching him, destroying him.

She had observed the rogue parental streak across his features, eager to shield Denzel against Reno's fairy tales. His need to protect far outweighing his need for solitude. He shakes his head, the slightest of motion drawing her eyes to his face, how the corners of his lips twist in a way completely unfamiliar to his features. A hint of a smile traced across his mouth. But he won't tell her how he really feels, won't bother to verbalise the words she's waiting to hear.

They have fought for everything, they have fought for nothing.

Their lives have been conflict and personal sacrifice. He is not about to forfeit the answer she anticipates, the response she no doubt repeats like a hymn in her head, without a fight, without the effort and the suffering they have both grown accustomed to.

The familiar.

"Disgusting," he mutter simply, the word spat over his shoulder as an afterthought, already twisting in the shadow to hide away in his room for the night.

And maybe later, while she checks on the children, sleep already warping the corners of her consciousness; she'll encounter her sham husband? Boyfriend? The stories flicker and falter so continuously, she's neglected to keep track. Violet streaks under his eyes, his skin pale in the dim light. He won't say anything; only part his lips to press them against the pulse hammering dutifully against the skin of her throat. No surprises, no curiosity, this is just Cloud proving a point. This is just the part of his act no one else gets to see. And just when the skin is red, the white of her neck mottled in bruises the shape of his mouth, just when she manages to close her eyes to block out the sensations, he leans away, quickly rebuilding his defensive walls.

"How does **_this_** feel?" he asks, a mocking imitation of her earlier words. And she can't help the small smile on her lips.

"Disgusting," she answers obediently. But it's not, and they're both lying. She'll only play his games to keep his mind at peace. He can't risk these human attachments, because he could never save his loved ones, and he has even less confidence in his future potential.

Cloud Strife, the saviour of the planet, is terrified by the prospect of what the future may bring, even worse, what the future may take.

That night she'll sit alone in the darkness of her room and fight the awkward laughter bubbling along the lines of her throat when the realisation finally hits, that despite shiny metal, flashes of speed and old battle scars, she is stronger than Cloud Strife could ever was.

_"Is it 'cause you don't mean it? Or because i don't feel it? That it's rough".  
_


End file.
